


Tempo

by let2gotwoapplebee2



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, M/M, dancestuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:38:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/let2gotwoapplebee2/pseuds/let2gotwoapplebee2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat Vantas is an injured and disgraced Russian contemporary dance phenom, now teaching in a prominent dance school on the east coast for the past three semesters. John Egbert is a hobby dancer, transferring from a tiny mom-and-pop studio in Washington state to an esteemed east coast studio when his father moves cross-country to support John's ailing grandmother. John is as talented as they come, but hardly invested enough to push himself until an angry Russian tutor pushes all the wrong buttons and makes him prove himself.</p><p>Written for nevernoahh's Dancestuck AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempo

You card your hand through your hair and reach for your cane. Your foot throbs and you know you’re going to get the rain the weatherman swore up and down wouldn’t fall. You got an email this morning, saying you’d be getting a new student from Washington today. This is, of course, exactly what you needed: to pound into the head of another West Coast twink that not everything is about getting across the floor and that, sometimes, you just need to take a moment onstage and fucking BE.

You stand up and pointflexpointflex your foot a few times, wincing. Every time it gets angry like this, the headlines still spark in the back of your skull. “Rising Dance Star Embarrassed with Career-Ending Injury,” “Karkat Vantas: Russian Contemporary Phenom or Human Trampoline?” You snarl and stand, putting weight on your bad foot, despite its screaming. Today, like every other day since you made the mistake of stepping on stage with the lardass who broke your foot and ended the career you’d worked your entire life to enjoy nine months of, is going to be completely and irrevocably shitty.

\-- 

Your name is Dave Strider and, as with every other day you work on lines and framing with him, you have no idea what crawled up the new teacher’s ass and died. You shrug it off and heave your bag onto your shoulder to parade your fine ass down the hall to tap class. 

\--

Your dad drops you off in front of the uninterestingly pretty studio and you heave a sigh. You’re all for finding ways to make new friends after the move, but this studio seems a fair sight more intense than the one back home in Washington and you’re not sure that’s cool. Dad always said you were the big duck in a tiny pond there, but you always shrugged it off. You were the only guy there. Of course you seemed great with no comparison. You’re a bit afraid to see how you match up to East Coast guys, but even if you suck, you’re pretty sure it’s not going to bother you. After all, this is just a hobby.

\--

Your grip tightens on your cane as the newest addition to your class of idiots stumbles in ass first to your room. His face splits into a grin and advances rapidly on you, offering a hand to shake, blurting out his name and where he’s from and other things you don’t care about. You stare at his extended right hand, then blink at your right, braced on your cane. 

“Oh! Oh gosh, wow, I’m sorry! Anyway, yeah, I’m John and I’m new. Are you the student teacher?”

A hush falls over the rest of the students in the back of the room, changing their shoes. You’re maybe three years older than the oldest among them, but even the youngest and stupidest in your class knew not to imply you were any sort of AMATEUR. They wait, all six of them, with bated breath, in anticipation of the brewing storm. You know they expect it, which almost makes you want to bite back and be courteous to this dunderhead. Today, however, you are just a bit too bitter for compassion or subverting expectations, so you suck in breath and hear someone breathe, “shit.”

“No. John. I am not a student teacher. I am not your peer. I am not your friend,” you start, voice low and rasping. Your r’s still roll, an unbidden carryover from the motherland, but you think it has a nice effect here. “I am your teacher proper and expect all of the consideration that comes with the title, as well as that which comes with being a fucking human being.” You pop your cane up a bit higher into your hand and jab the handle in his chest. His baby rabbit eyes are huge and fearful and apologetic, exactly as they should be. “My name is Karkat Vantas and I will be teaching you how to dance better, if you would kindly remove your foot from your goddamned mouth.” 

You see recognition dawn in his face and he nods hurriedly, scurrying to the back of the room. There is a rush of air as collectively held breath is released. There seems to be a consensus that that wasn’t as bad as it could have been, which disappoints you a little bit, but satisfies your concern that maybe, maybe you were too harsh. As the last of the dawdlers gets situated in the center of the room, you start some music.

“Plies et tendus en croix. Parallel first, turn out, parallel second turn out, reverse. Keep up, Egbert. FIVE SIX SEV-AND-EIGHT.”

You thump your cane against the ground as the students meander through warm-ups. The new idiot picks up quickly, but is skittish to look up or make eye contact. There’s no pride to his shoulders and he takes care not to leap the highest or reach the farthest and it makes you itch under your skin. You snap at him for it and he shoots you a bewildered look, as if he has no idea what pride has to do with his dancing. Something changes, though. You can actually see his lines clean themselves. He looks a good three inches taller and you realize that there just might be something to this kid, if you can just make sure he keeps trying.

You scowl and lean heavily on your cane. This kid just will not stop pissing you off.


End file.
